Page 19 of Protecting What's Mine
She cruised in at five feet six inches with jet black hair that she kept cropped in a stylish pixie cut. It fit under her hood and helmet better that way, she said. What she lacked in long legs, she made up for in fast feet and freakish strength. At forty-five, she ran long-distance mud races for fun and got matching tattoos with her eighteen-year-old daughter.
“Right as rain,” he fibbed. Sore as hell was what it was.
Sunshine raced around, greeting everyone with equal enthusiasm. She accepted Kelly’s head scratch and then happily bolted for the stairs and kitchen where a variety of dog treats waited.
The garage smelled of diesel and fresh cleaners. To Linc, the scent meant new starts. No matter what the apparatus and equipment had been through the previous day, it was reset to like-new.
Two of his day shift volunteers were already going over the engines, checking the med kits and emergency lighting, while last night’s crew filled them in on the accident clean-up.
Every day began with a thorough check of all equipment and vehicles. Personal gear was stowed, equipment tested, and each apparatus gone over with a fine-tooth comb.
There was something satisfying, almost meditative, about the daily check. It prepared them all both physically and mentally for anything.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a sling?” Kelly asked in her best mom voice.
“Shouldn’t you be buying your kid another hamster?”
“Deflecting,” she shot back. “And it’s on the agenda for tonight. Still not sure how the last furry little bastard got out of that damn ball.”
“You’re the one who named him Houdini.”
“I just hope he doesn’t turn up in an air vent or something.” She sighed. “Then we’ll have five.”
The glass windows gleamed in the morning sun. The crew took pride in their new station. Saturday was cleaning day. It was a hell of a lot easier—and more satisfying—to clean a brand-new facility than try to scrub through the decades of sludge on twenty-year-old turd brown carpet.
The novelty of a new facility had yet to wear off.
“Want an unofficial briefing?” she offered.
“If there’s coffee involved,” he yawned. He stopped himself mid-stretch when he felt the twinge in his shoulder.
He’d slept like a log but could have used another hour or two.
Kelly followed him up the stairs where they ducked into the kitchen.
“Morning, chief,” Zane “Stairmaster” Jones greeted him with a bagel in one hand and his gym bag in the other. The deli in town always dropped off bagels the morning after a tough incident. Yet another benefit of small-town life.
“What’s up, Stairmaster?”
“Heard you tweaked your shoulder pretty good,” he said. The man was short and stocky but had the endurance of a professional athlete. He’d earned the nickname for organizing the local 9/11 memorial tribute. One hundred ten floors on stair climbers in full gear at the local gym.
Linc shrugged, then regretted the motion. “It’s not bad. Doctor’s being over-cautious if you ask me.”
“Is that the doctor who looked you over in the ED or the one you had dinner with last night?” Kelly asked, the picture of innocence.
News traveled at lightning speeds in Benevolence.
He gave her an enigmatic smile and changed the subject. “How’s the ’stache race going?” he asked Zane. Some of the guys were competing in a pre-Movember facial hair growing contest.
Zane stroked a hand over the sad wisps of facial hair dotting his upper lip. “Pretty good. I mean, Harry’s in the lead, but I think I’m doing all right.”
“He’s a hirsute bastard,” Linc agreed, thinking of the thick-haired Italian volunteer. “Make sure he’s not just letting his nose hair grow out.”
“I think it’s muscle memory. Dude shaved his decades-old ’stash off just to participate.”
“I’m competing in the leg hair division,” Kelly put in. She took a drink of coffee so pale it could pass for milk.
“Please. You draw on your eyebrows every day,” Zane scoffed.
